A Dark and Stormy Night
by Emmeebee
Summary: Even in the darkest of times, the smallest of traditions can help you cling to hope and memories. Garrick Ollivander has been able to stay out of the war for the most part, isolating himself from society when possible and focusing instead on his craft, but that manufactured peace is about to be broken in the worst way.


Garrick Ollivander sighed as he closed the book he'd been reading and started ladling soup into the novelty bowl his daughter had bought for him as part of a set at a fair many moons ago. Decorated with pictures of wands and sparks, it was his favourite piece of crockery. Given the darkness that had befallen the wizarding world, he clung to traditions that reminded him of a brighter and happier time. The world outside might have been knocked from its hinges, but that didn't mean he had to stop reading and thinking and remembering and living.

Of course, it'd be nice if his reading material was actually decent. He'd had such high hopes for the book. The prospect of a comprehensive study into the validity of the distinction between dark and light magic had been alluring. Its meticulously detailed methodology, consisting of a lengthy literature review followed by a wide range of qualitative and quantitative research, had awakened his mind. Even the results, while lacklustre in comparison, had drawn him in. The discussion, however, was simplistic at best, and the conclusion made no sense whatsoever. The pre-reviews had promised a ground-breaking foray into the concepts detailed, but the book itself had monumentally failed to deliver.

He supposed that it was, to some extent, his fault. After all, he had – perhaps unwarrantedly – assumed that it would merely confirm his own theory. To him, the notion of classifying magic into a binary system of right and wrong, of good and evil, of light and dark, was preposterous. He'd studied wands and wandmaking long enough to know how complex the relationship between wizard and wand, or wizard and magic, could be. Spells and wands were just tools whose effects and natures were largely shaped by their user's will. How, then, could they be arbitrarily separated into acceptable and unacceptable spells on the basis of whether they were lawful or chaotic in nature? Some spells were so obviously designed to hurt or control others that they clearly weren't tolerable. The mere fact that one's emotions played a role in the intensity of the spell's effects shouldn't automatically condemn the spell. He had assumed that a revolutionary exposé would at least consider that idea with some degree of objectivity. Alas, the author had summarily dismissed the theory in a throwaway comment before proceeding to merely rehash common theories.

His parents had taught him not to complain about things that he himself hadn't already done his best to rectify. There was no point, after all, to whinging about annoyances caused by a friend when you've never even raised the issue with them. However, proposing such a theory at a time like this would be a dangerous move for him. He was already influential enough to be on noticed by a range of powerful groups; he didn't need to exacerbate things. The wizarding world was controlled by people who would seize the idea and use it to justify their cruelties, and the small active resistance would blame him for it. Fortunately, his job involved a lot of private work and travel, so he had a ready-made excuse to isolate himself from the world. Still, he had to be wary.

Deciding not to wallow in the tragedy of the situation, he let himself get lost in the delightful scent of peas and lentils as the soup toyed with the boundary of being cool enough to eat. Fortunately, he liked his soup on the hot side, so he didn't have to wait long to start eating the delicious concoction.

The taste of his favourite food soothed the disappointments and fears that had been plaguing his life for so long. _It really is life's little pleasures that makes everything worth it,_ he thought to himself.

He was still ruminating on that idea when, halfway through his dinner, he heard the first creak.

Creaking and scraping sounds were normal for a building as old as his. The frequency, however, wasn't.

 _I knew Lucius Malfoy was following me the other day._

His first instinct was to flee. He could gather up one or two of his most important possessions, set fire to the rest, and disappear into the night. The blaze should distract the intruders and give him time to make his getaway. It would be hard to part with centuries of hard work, but it would ensure his own safety. After all, he'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw for a reason; he might be a proud and chivalrous man, but he certainly wasn't brave. The idea of fleeing with his tail between his legs didn't faze him for moral reasons.

 _No_ , he decided. _No._

The Death Eaters had obviously taken an interest in him. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have been sent after him unless he was a person of great significance to them. And Garrick wasn't naïve enough to believe that the incident at the markets had been the first time he'd been watched, either. No; they'd catch up with him eventually, no matter what he did. He might as well stay and fight. His shop contained too much history and sentimentality to throw away so cavalierly. Keeping its secrets out of the hands of He Who Must Not Be Named wasn't enough for him; nothing less than preserving them safely would do. He could defeat this lot of Death Eaters and then pack and flee properly.

He might not be a brave person, but he could be brave that day. He might not be a Gryffindor, but he could be a Ravenclaw defending his knowledge and life's work.

His mind whirling through possibilities and strategies, he ate another spoonful of soup. Then, quickly, he moved to secure the most important of his tomes and sentimental items. There were research notes that could undermine systems and destroy the resistance in there. The secrets of wandmaking were too precious and too fundamental to the fabric of their society to fall into Death Eaters' hands. And there were mementos that he simply couldn't bear the notion of parting with; if he failed, he wanted them to be around for his descendants to find and retrieve and treasure. He hid them all in the basement before magically fusing the trapdoor to the cement around it until it was a continuous block of smooth cement. Then he returned to the table and started setting up layers upon layers of wards.

It might have been enough to avoid the confrontation. It might have been enough to save him.

It might have been a lot of things, had his foes merely been Death Eaters. As soon as the central figure removed his mask to reveal serpentine features, however, he knew that none of his efforts would amount to anything. The basement trick might fool the cloaked entourage, but nothing he could throw at them would be enough to deter them. They clearly had as much confidence in the inevitability of their victory as he did; Death Eaters never removed their masks unless they knew there would be no survivors to tell the tale, yet they followed their leader's cue in revealing their faces. Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange. Theseus Nott. They were all qualified duellers and fearsome foes. Just facing one of them would have been a challenging task.

Still, he was determined to try. _At least it means they seem me as a worthy adversary._

His wards fell within seconds. As soon as the last defence had broken, he cast a Disarming Spell at Bellatrix Lestrange with one hand while the other grabbed his bowl of soup and, in one quick motion, flung it at the nearest Death Eater. Distracted by the pitiful attempt at combat, Theseus Nott didn't notice the projectile until it was too late. The man screamed as the hot liquid scalded his face. It didn't take long for him to recover his wits and shatter the ceramic bowl as it fell, but it gave Ollivander – who fought the twinge in his chest at seeing one of the precious bowls destroyed, even if he knew the other was safely shut away – the time to send off a rapid string of hexes and curses at the others without his interference.

The battle was fast and fierce. Magic – dark, light, and everything in between – whistled through the air as they danced and side-stepped and dived. Boxes fell and furniture was blown away and the pot clattered to the floor, causing green soup to pool at their feet like vomit. The light and noise lit up the room as if it were a rainbow-coloured thunderstorm, sparks and colours flashing furiously as crashes resounded throughout the room.

Garrick was honestly surprised at how long he lasted. There were moments, scattered throughout, when he genuinely thought he had a chance. For some reason, his opponents didn't fire any Killing Curses at him; they didn't want him dead, at least not immediately, and that made him consider this chances of using that to his advantage and slipping away in the confusion. Alas, however, there was a reason the man's chosen moniker alone could strike fear in the hearts of everyone who was alive to witness the first wizarding war. Garrick Ollivander stood his ground for an hour. Then, swarmed by people far darker than him, he was overcome and disarmed and taken to the imposing hedge-lined driveway of Malfoy Manor.

* * *

A/N: Written for the Cluedo/Clue Challenge for the prompts 'Garrick Ollivander,' 'brave,' and 'bowl' and for the If You Dare Challenge for the prompt 'Ground-breaking'. Dedicated to Sir John Hurt (although this feels kind of pretentious); a whole fandom is wishing you well.

Also, my cousin and his partner had a baby! I got to meet him the day after he was born. He's tiny and has the most adorable little fingernails, and he slept peacefully in my arms for almost the entire time I held him. I know that people often lie about their opinions of a baby so as not to offend his or her parents, but I can honestly say that he's perfect.


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